Real Life
by Rebecca Gadd
Jeffrey's television had been on for almost ten years. It was a thirteen inch color set with an antenna. It lived on his kitchen table near the back window for best reception. He had no cable or satellite hook-up, so most days he was only able to receive the NBC affiliate out of Omaha, eighty miles away. If it was exceptionally clear out, he could also get ABC, but the other networks were out of the question.
Over the years it had become a comforting white noise that he barely registered, but it kept the silence out. As an experiment, he once turned the set off before bed. The soundlessness had been more than he could bear. It had pressed in around him, magnifying until he felt as if he would scream. After three sleepless hours he had finally been forced to pad out to the kitchen and turn it back on. The peaceful buzz of late night infomercials put him out almost immediately.
He stepped out onto the back porch in the early morning light, greater Omaha's traffic report behind him, and looked out across Sunrise Prairie.
"Don't you love how obvious people are with naming?" Greta greeted him the same way every morning.
He stood sipping his coffee as she crossed from the far end of the porch, patted him lovingly on the back, and disappeared into the house.
He watched the tall grass sway in the breeze. All in all, Sunrise Prairie proper amounted to around 100,000 acres. He lived on 4,000 of that. The land had been in his family for two centuries. His father had ranched it, but he had long since let the Prairie take control again. He enjoyed being able to stand on the porch every morning and watch it move like this.
He glanced off to the left and heard Snap barking in the treeline. A moment later the dog came barreling onto the lawn with Colin close behind.
"I got an Indian!"
"An Indian?"
"A whole tribe!"
At six years old, Colin was all freckles and lisp.
"Where'd you find a tribe?"
"Down the creek. They were going to come scalp us, but I got 'em!"
"Good thing, then."
Snap came up onto the porch and nuzzled against Jeffrey's leg.
"I don't have anything for you, scoundrel." He looked Colin over as he came up onto the porch. The boy had obviously been in the creek; he was wet up to mid-chest. "You're a mess, young sir. Don't you have school today?"
"It's Saturday," he giggled as he and Snap went into the house.
Jeffrey thought about it for a moment. It was Tuesday. "Okay," he called after them.
He set the coffee mug on the railing and headed across the yard toward the south pasture. It was about a fifteen minute walk through the early morning sun and mist. The family plot lay next to the auxiliary access road. A low stone wall kept the prairie out. He stepped over it instead of walking all the way around to the gate.
He walked to the far corner, underneath the branches of the only tree on this part of the prairie, and stood over the grave. He looked out over the prairie stretching off in every direction and struggled to hold back a sob. The prairie grass rustling outside the walls made his whole body feel heavier, as if he was being held down by the soughing sound. He pushed back at it in his mind, trying to unstick himself from the gravesite.
"I wasn't sure before, but I am now. He did it," he mumbled to himself as he finally turned away. "No, that's not it." He said the line again, trying to get the wording right and match the inflection.
He stepped out onto the access road and started back to the house the long way. By the time he got there the sun was full up and most of the dew had burned off. He grabbed his coffee cup from the railing and went into the kitchen. The house was silent. The Today Show was just giving way to one of those small claims court farces. He set the mug in the empty sink and wandered upstairs to his office. The phone rang almost as soon as he sat down.
"Hello."
"Daniel? It's Marty. I've got some good news: they're interested in Prairie Quiet."
He leaned back in his chair. "That's--that's great, Marty. That's--I mean, is this a serious thing or just them feeling me out?"
"No, it's serious. They want you to come to the city to talk numbers and take a look at the contract."
He twisted the phone cord between his fingers in silence.
"Daniel? This could be big."
"I know, I just--"
"You haven't published in over a decade, man. You've gotta get back--"
"I know. I know. I just, you know, I stay away from there for a reason, right?"
"No one's asking you to move here. Just to come up for a couple days so that they can legally pay you. They're saying this could be your blockbuster, Dan. Put you back on the map. Opportunities like that don't come along every day."
"You're resorting to cliché, Marty."
"Daniel. Focus, okay? Book deal. Lots of money. Critical and commercial success. This is supposed to be your a-number one wet dream. I'm gonna have my assistant pin them down on dates and times, then we're going to get you a plane ticket, okay?"
He stared at the floor. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah, whatever."
"Good." Marty paused awkwardly. Then, "How's everything else? How are you doing these days?"
"Do we really need to do the pleasantries part of the conversation, Marty? Wasn't it pleasant enough to get to talk about the money we're about to make together?"
"Yeah, okay."
"Good. Uh, let me know about the meeting and tickets and everything."
"Of course."
"I gotta go, though. Now. I've gotta go."
"Okay. Listen, Daniel, this is good news, okay? Try to keep your eye on that."
"Sure. Talk to you later, Marty."
Jeffrey hung up the phone before Marty could say goodbye. He sat balanced on the back two legs of his chair, his feet up on the desk, and stared out the window. The front of the house faced out on the state route. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, timing how long it took the few passing cars to move from one end of his field of vision to the other. Finally, he looked down at the typewriter perched placidly on the desk. The blank sheet of paper hanging out of the feed rustled in the breeze from the open window.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" he asked the page.
"What'd you say?" Greta had appeared in the doorway behind him.
"Nothing, just trying to get myself started."
"Who was on the phone?"
"Marty. He's got a house interested in my manuscript."
"Which one?"
Jeffrey scoffed gently. "Prairie Quiet."
"Oh, I like that one."
"Eh," he shrugged.
"It's good, Jeff."
"It's Š what it is. But it's going to make me a million billion bucks and will give me enough leverage to hang onto Marty as my agent for another couple years of non-productivity. Isn't that what this is all about?"
"Marty's your friend."
"I know."
"You're being too hard on yourself."
"Whatever."
"It's good. Why can't you ever just ease up?"
Jeffrey shook his head. "I'll probably have to go to New York in the next couple weeks for the meetings. Finalize contracts and all that nonsense."
"I don't like New York."
"I know."
He watched the state route for a long moment as a semi struggled up the increasing grade just past the driveway.
"I've got to go into town today," he finally said. "You want anything?"
"You'll be fine, Jeff."
He set the chair down on all fours and stood up. "I know." He kissed her on the cheek and passed out into the hall and down the stairs. "I might be a while. I'm going to the library too," he called as he searched for his keys.
He stopped in the kitchen and glanced at the TV--still the court show. He found the keys on top of the refrigerator and walked back out the front of the house to his truck.
Forty-five minutes later he pulled into Sunrise Prairie Center. He swung by the post office and picked up his week's worth of magazines and bills, then walked across the street to the tiny library. The lower floor was devoted to reference, mostly encyclopedias, dictionaries, and agricultural literature. The second floor had a modest selection of contemporary fiction and non-fiction in the front room. The back room, nearly twice as large as the front, contained literary classics. Most of the books had been bought with money Jeffrey had donated after the success of his first novel.
He moved up and down the cramped aisles, fingering the spines lovingly. He had read almost everything in there. The only books he consciously avoided were the Henry James titles. He stopped and scanned one of the shelves. His eye landed on One Hundred Years of Solitude.
"What do you think, Aurelianos?" he muttered.
Colin appeared at the head of the aisle and waved happily at him before zipping off out of sight once more.
He took the book downstairs to the desk and traded in Going After Cacciato for the Marquéz and re-checked out For Whom the Bell Tolls.
"Do not go to the bridge, Robert Jordan," he said as he dropped the books and his mail in the truck.
He walked up the empty block and into the Sunrise Prairie Center General Store.
"Morning, Danny," Kathleen called from the office behind the counter.
"Morning."
He covered the store quickly--loaf of bread, pre-packaged bologna, cheese singles, a couple cans of soup, milk, cereal--and went up to the counter. As Kathleen rang up the groceries, a man in surgical scrubs and a lab coat walked in. He stared at the side of Jeffrey's head.
"There was nothing we could do," the man said.
"What does that mean?" Jeffrey said without looking at him.
"The damage was too severe. He lost too much blood. I'm sorry."
He gripped the edge of the counter.
"Danny?" Kathleen shook his arm. "Danny?"
He blinked slowly and looked up at her. "Sorry?"
"Twenty-four oh six."
He fumbled for the money. He took his change and groceries and headed for the door.
"See you next week," Kathleen said.
He gave her a quick wave over his shoulder and left.
When he got back to the house, Greta was reading on the front porch swing. She hopped up and waved to him as he pulled in.
"What'd you bring me?"
"Salmon filets and all the fixings for double chocolate mousse."
"Delectable." She followed him into the house.
"Colin likes fish, right?"
"Funny." She leaned against the kitchen doorjamb as he unpacked the groceries. "What'd you do with him?"
"He's going to JR's after school to spend the night."
"Doesn't he have school tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow's Saturday, silly." He smiled at her over his shoulder as he put away the milk. "Just you and me."
"Ooh, sexy," she purred.
"I've got to actually get some work in before any of that, though."
She tousled his hair and went back out toward the front porch.
He turned from the fridge and checked the TV. The early evening news was just coming on. There was a school shooting in Utah and a small plane crash outside of Lincoln.
"There are more planes in the sea than there are subs in the sky," he murmured.
He quickly made a peanut butter sandwich and poured himself a glass of milk before heading upstairs.
He set the food on top of an already stained hardcover of his first book, Zero Hour. The cover design was a single emerald green eye in extreme close up. He had always hated it. He had begged his publisher to come up with something else but had been told that there was nothing to be done. He set the glass of milk directly over the pupil and rocked back in the chair.
He ate the sandwich slowly, watching the state route outside. No cars passed at this time of day. He looked up at the sky. A wall of storm clouds loomed way out over the horizon. He hoped it would rain.
He looked over the wheat field on the far side of the road. A ripple of wheat moved toward him, opening and closing in a long line. It spat Colin, running and waving a stick, onto the road. Just then, a four by four Jeffrey had not seen slammed into him. The boy's body flew across the pavement before landing in the ditch on the near side of the road. The driver of the truck jumped out and ran over to him. Jeffrey saw Greta running out across the front lawn to where Colin lay bleeding.
"I didn't see him," the driver gasped as she approached. "I'm so sorry." He held the boy's head in his hands. He set it gingerly back on the ground and sobbed as it lolled lifelessly to the side.
Jeffrey set the plate down next to the book and drank the milk in a single gulp. He looked down at the sheet of paper still sticking out of the typewriter. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
He set the chair down and leaned forward to type. The machine whirred and clicked as he typed a detailed description of the prairie outside his window. It covered less than half of the blank page, but he pulled the sheet out and held it up in front of his face anyway. He read and reread it, trying to formulate a story around it.
"There was nothing we could do," the doctor's voice rang over his shoulder.
Jeffrey turned slightly in his chair and stared at him.
He balled up the paper and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Then he leaned forward and placed his forehead against the desk. He rolled it from side to side against the cool wood for a moment before lifting it an inch or two and whacking it down again.
The phone rang, causing him to lurch upright.
"Hello."
"Daniel? Marty. My assistant's been on with their people all day, and we've got a meeting scheduled for next Tuesday."
"Okay," he responded dully.
"We're going to fly you in on Sunday. Sound good?"
"Okay," he said again.
"What's wrong? You don't sound right."
"I'm fine."
"You sure? Because I don't want you up here if you can't handle it. We'll find another way to get the details hammered out."
"You don't mean that."
Marty thought about it a moment. "Not really, but I'm trying to be the nice guy here. Trying to keep my author from flaking out. Again."
"I'm sorry I don't live up to your expectations, Marty."
"Fuck my expectations. We're friends, Daniel, and you don't sound right. I want you to be okay. And I don't want a repeat of Eleven Seconds."
"That was a piece of shit, cocksucking, over-the-top monstrosity of a--"
"That was number one bestseller, millions of dollars, plus movie rights is what that was. I don't want to see you flushing another opportunity."
"It was shit."
"It was your chance to establish your brand. Zero Hour was good and successful and all that bs, but it was also ten years ago. You have published nothing in the interim, and the public has almost completely forgotten your name."
"That's how I know it was shit, Marty. If it was good, they'd have no trouble with my name."
"Not everybody's gotta be Harper Lee, Dan. Or fucking Fitzgerald or Melville or any of those guys."
"Harper Lee's a woman."
"My point is that it's okay for some people to be John Grisham." The annoyance was rising in Marty's voice. "It's okay to be successful and make money without necessarily--"
"Having any appreciable talent or skill?"
"Daniel."
"Greed is good, Gordon Gecko?"
"Are you coming up on Sunday or not?"
He held the receiver away from his ear for a moment, thinking it over.
"Dan?"
"Yeah. Fine, yeah."
"Whatever you think about Zero Hour, I promise you that this book is better."
"Not hard to improve on shit."
"Daniel," Marty snapped.
"I'll stop."
"Good. Now," Marty took a deep breath into the phone, "do whatever it is you need to do, but you have got to be a normal, affable guy when you're up here. They need to see that they can work with you. They're not going to want to waste time or money on a whack job."
"I'm fine."
"You're trying on your best days. I need you to be calm and to put on the appearance of sanity. Do you understand?"
"I'll be fine."
"Fine. Then I will see you Sunday evening."
"Right."
"Your flight is at 2:30 out of Omaha. Delta. Your tickets will be at the counter. Please do not miss it."
"Yeah."
Once again, Jeffrey hung up the phone before Marty had a chance to say goodbye. He leaned back in the chair and watched as the storm front approached and the sky opened up with rain.
* * *
The following Sunday morning, Jeffrey woke up at his usual time and went down to the kitchen. He watched the early morning church service as he made coffee. A charismatic TV minister was talking about turning the other cheek in an entertaining, if somewhat nonsensical, fashion. Jeffrey filled his mug and stepped out onto the back porch. He looked out across Sunrise Prairie.
"Don't you love how obvious people are with naming?" Greta greeted him the same way every morning.
He stood sipping his coffee as she crossed from the far end of the porch, patted him lovingly on the back, and disappeared into the house.
He looked down toward the south pasture and saw Colin and Snap wading through the tall grass towards the house. At sixteen, Colin looked just like Jeffrey had as a young man, right down to the sullen expression constantly plastered across his face.
"Morning," Jeffrey called down to him.
Colin looked up but didn't wave. He trudged into the yard, Snap trotting ahead and onto the porch. The dog nuzzled Jeffrey's leg; the boy silently dropped onto the swing and stretched out.
"Early morning fishing?"
"Please," Colin rolled his eyes.
"Well, then, what were you doing?"
"Nothing. Just walking around."
"See anything good?"
"Just a whole lotta nothing."
Jeffrey watched him quietly.
"You used to live in New York, right?"
"Yes."
"Why the hell would you move back to a boring pit like this, then?"
"You didn't used to think it was boring."
"I used to be six. What did I know?"
"You really think you wouldn't be just as unhappy there right now as you are here?"
"Oh so it's my fault. I'm just an asshole."
Jeffrey shook his head. "No. And could you watch your language please? What I meant was that being a teenager pretty much sucks no matter your geography."
"Surely it would help to have something to do."
"Eh," Jeffrey shrugged. "You'd still have the zits and the mood swings and the Marthas dumping you for no good reason."
Colin looked up sharply. "How'd you know about that?"
"I'm omniscient, I guess."
"Whatever."
Colin rose from the swing and walked over to the door. "I'm still outta here soon as I'm eighteen, you know."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
"Come on, Snapper."
The boy and the dog went into the house, and Jeffrey turned back to the prairie.
He thought about the flight he had to get on later that day, imagined the various scenarios under which it would fall out of the sky. He was only mildly relieved to find that his imagination had him surviving almost fifty percent of the time. Worse than the crashes, though, was the prospect of living through the flight and landing in New York.
He set the coffee mug on the railing and headed across the yard toward the south pasture. It was about a fifteen minute walk through the early morning sun and mist. The family plot lay next to the auxiliary access road. A low stone wall kept the prairie out. He stepped over it instead of walking all the way around to the gate.
He walked to the far corner, underneath the branches of the only tree on this part of the prairie, and stood over the grave. He looked out over the prairie stretching off in every direction and struggled to hold back a sob. He heard a rustling in the tree above him. He looked up and found Colin, all freckles and lisp, sitting among the branches.
"What are you doing up there? Shouldn't you be getting ready for school?"
"It's Sunday."
"I knew that."
"Mama said you're going on a trip."
"Yeah, but I won't be away too long."
"Can I come?"
"I wish you could, buddy, but not this time."
"Okay."
"You really shouldn't be up there, you know. We have plenty of other trees to climb."
"I like this one. It's quiet here. When do you gotta leave?"
Jeffrey checked his watch. "About a half hour, I guess. Why don't you come down from there and walk back up to the house with me?"
The boy scrambled to the lowest branch and hung for a moment, swinging back and forth, before dropping to the ground with a small thud. He rolled over and lay spread-eagled across the grave.
"Get off of there, Colin. Jeez."
Colin popped up and stood looking at his father for a long, silent minute.
"What?"
"She knows you're sorry, you know. She knows you didn't mean to."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"I'm going to the creek," the boy said, abruptly shifting gears. "I gotta find the rest of those Indians."
He lifted himself over the low stone wall and ran off toward the treeline. Jeffrey watched him until he disappeared into the prairie grass.
"I wasn't sure before, but I am now. He did it," he mumbled to himself as he turned and left the graveyard. "No, that's not it." He said the line again, trying to get the wording right and match the inflection as he started back across the prairie to the house.
When he got back, he grabbed the coffee mug off the railing and took it into the kitchen to wash it. He carefully wiped down all the counters and tabletops, lest he return home to an insect invasion. Then he walked throughout the house turning off lights and appliances and making sure all the windows were closed.
He ended up back in the kitchen, his duffel sitting at the ready in the doorway. Meet the Press was on. He reached out and gingerly touched the power button. He knew it was ridiculous to leave the set on when he wasn't even going to be here for the week. He should save the power and give the machine a break. But then he thought about what it would be like when he got back to walk into a totally silent house. He told himself to grow up. It would be easy enough to flip it on first thing. He took a breath, steeling himself, and pressed the button. The silence rushed into the room like air filling a vacuum. He felt it close in on him and had to ball his hands into fists to prevent himself from immediately pressing the button again.
He grabbed his duffel and fled the house.
* * *
Marty met him at LaGuardia and drove him to the hotel. It was on 44th, near Times Square.
"Ah, God, Marty. Times Square? Like I'm some sort of tourist? I lived in the Village, I lived in the LES. You're putting me up in Times Square? I'm going to lose all my street cred."
Marty smiled overly patiently at him. "Daniel, you're almost forty years old. You're a white guy. You're visiting from Nebraska. You don't have any street cred."
They rode the elevator up together.
"Do you want to get lunch tomorrow?" Marty asked as Jeffrey let them into the room and began unpacking his bag.
"No. No. I think I'm just going to stay here. Watch TV or read or something. Best for everyone."
"Dan, you said you could handle this."
"I can. I'm going to. I'm going to stay in my room and handle it. Okay?"
"Fine. The meeting is scheduled for 11am on Tuesday. I'll come by and pick you up around nine. We'll get some breakfast and go over the preliminaries."
"Okay."
Marty turned to leave.
"You talked to Greta lately?" Jeffrey asked without looking up from his bag.
Marty turned back slowly. "No."
"Okay."
"I said I needed you normal at the meeting. You're not going to be if you go dredging that all up."
"Okay."
"I should have gotten the flight for tomorrow."
"I'm going to stay in my room."
Marty stared at him until he finally looked up.
"I'm going to stay in my room."
"Please do. I'll see you on Tuesday morning."
Jeffrey watched him leave.
He moved the duffel from the bed to the luggage rack and then sat on the edge of the mattress facing the curtained window. He stood and opened the curtains and stared down at 44th Street, dark and mostly quiet, below. He waited a moment, straining to hear the traffic or maybe a siren on the avenue, but the streets were still. He moved over to the television and switched it on. According to the channel listing card on the shelf above it, he had sixty or seventy channels to choose from. He sat on the bed and flipped around for a few minutes before finally settling on channel 4. He turned the volume down to a barely audible murmur--the same as it sounded at home when he went up to his bedroom every night--then laid down on top of the bedspread and tried to sleep.
He awoke the next morning a little after ten. The noise from the street had picked up significantly as midtown Monday morning rush hour got into full swing. He took a quick shower and then sat on the bed again, trying to decide what to do for the day. He figured it was already probably too late to get breakfast downstairs, but he didn't really want lunch either. He shoved his key card into his pocket and left the room with the completely rational excuse that he was just going to go find a deli and get a bagel.
When he stepped out onto 44th he felt a little lightheaded. People bustled past in both directions, and an impatient taxi honked loudly when the van in front of it didn't immediately react to the changing light. Jeffrey took a deep breath to steady himself and headed for the avenue. His palms started to sweat as he turned onto 6th. He stayed over on the curb side of the sidewalk but knew he was still in people's way. The thing that had driven him craziest when he had lived here was people walking too slowly. He hated that he was now one of those people.
It was two blocks down to the B/D/F/V stop, and he let himself drift there and then go down into the subway, pretending to himself that he had no control over it. He stepped up to the booth and asked for a round trip fare card. He was surprised when the attendant asked for four dollars.
"Didn't realize fares had gone up so much," he said through the glass.
"What?" came the attendant's garbled reply.
"Never mind."
He took the card and moved through the turnstile toward the downtown side. As the F train arrived and he got on, he swore to himself that he was just going to ride it around for the day. He wasn't going anywhere in particular. But when, a few minutes later, it stopped at Delancey Street, he found himself following the small crowd out onto the platform.
Jeffrey felt himself shaking. A woman and small child took a wide arc away from him to get past him to the stairs.
An old man, drunk, probably homeless, called over from one of the benches, "Hey, man, you all right?"
Jeffrey looked over at him and nodded.
"Spare any change?"
Jeffrey dug around in his pockets for a moment, but only came up with the key card. He shrugged and shook his head at the man.
"Well, then, fuck off," the old man spat.
Jeffrey looked over at the stairs and watched the few stragglers from his train exit as a new set of passengers came down to the platform. He hesitated a moment longer before heading up and out to the street. He moved slowly up Essex to Rivington, then walked over to Suffolk. At the corner of Rivington and Suffolk he stopped again and stared up the block. The building was on the opposite side of the street, nondescript, with a storefront at the bottom.
"I guess as long as I'm here," he chuckled nervously to himself.
He blotted his damp palms on his pants and tried to appear nonchalant as he approached the building. A young man with a bicycle balanced on his shoulder got to the door just ahead of him and pulled out his keys. Jeffrey held the door for him and followed him inside. The man with the bike set it down in front of a door on the first floor. He didn't say anything as Jeffrey passed him and started up the stairs.
Greta lived in 3C. Or, at least, she had the last time he had heard from her. He had no way of knowing if she was even still in the city. He went over and knocked, softly at first. When no one answered, he knocked again with more authority. He stood back and watched as the peephole went dark for a moment before the door eased open.
"Daniel," Greta said with no small amount of resignation in her voice. "What are you doing here?"
"Hi. I'm just--I just wanted to say hi."
Greta shook her head. "No, I meant, how did you get in the building?"
"Oh, I held the door for one of your neighbors."
"Wonderful."
She stared at him blankly for a long moment.
"What are you doing back in the city?" she finally asked.
He blotted his hands against his pants again. "I'm here to sign a book deal. I've got a day before the meetings, so I wanted to say hi and see how you're doing." He knew he said the last part much too quickly.
"I'm fine."
"Good. Good."
"Is that it?"
"Well, no. I mean, we could get lunch or something. Catch up."
"I don't want to catch up, Daniel."
"Oh."
"I've got a meeting with a client this afternoon, okay? I've got to get ready."
She started to close the door on him.
"Wait." He felt panicky. "I really--I just, you know, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am."
She sighed and pressed her forehead against the edge of the door. "I know how sorry you are, Daniel. You've told me just about five thousand times now. I know."
"Oh, well, I guess it's five thousand and one now."
"Can't you try to move on? It's been ten years."
"I know that."
"I don't blame you, if that's what you're worried about."
"I'm not--No--This isn't about--"
"Ten years, Daniel. You can't keep hanging on like this."
He was suddenly very angry with her. "Well, I guess I'm not as good at wiping things out of my memory as you are."
She looked up at him, and he noticed for the first time that she had started to cry. "I haven't wiped anything from my memory, jackass. But I don't find it comforting or useful to cling to the past the way you seem to. He is gone, Daniel."
"I know that."
"You wallowing in it doesn't change that."
"I'm not wallowing."
"Do you think this is what he would have wanted?"
He blinked, felt as if he'd been struck with something heavy. "It's his birthday in two weeks."
"God damn it, Daniel! You think I don't know that? You think I don't think about him all the time? You think I'm so inhuman that I just forgot about him completely?"
He stared at his shoes. "You never come to visit," he said meekly.
"No. I don't. And that's my fault. I should have never let you bury him back there. But, then, I never thought things could get to the point where I would never want to see you again either. I hate that I can't stand seeing you more than I want to visit my own son's grave. Does that make you happy?"
He looked up but couldn't meet her eyes.
"It's time for you to go, Daniel."
"Okay."
"Please don't come by here anymore, okay?"
"Yeah."
Her expression and her tone softened. "I'm sorry I yelled, all right? Good luck with the book."
"Okay."
She closed the door. He stood there for a minute or two. He had wanted to tell her what the book was about. He raised his hand and knocked again, but she didn't answer. He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and scribbled Prairie Quiet and "I thought you should know" on it before slipping it under the door. He turned away from her apartment and started back for the hotel.
The next morning, Marty picked him up at nine just like he had said. Jeffrey didn't tell him about the visit downtown the previous day. He just smiled and tried to keep himself calm as they had breakfast. Marty talked about the kind of contract that was probably going to be offered. He told Jeffrey that they weren't going to sign anything giving the publishers any part of the copyright.
Finally he said, "I know I asked you this when you first sent me the manuscript, but are you sure about this?"
Jeffrey nodded.
"I've already explained to them about the whole thing. They're going to want to use that, if not in the ads then when they set you up on the publicity tour. They're going to want to send you on Oprah and have you cry. Can you handle that?"
He nodded again.
"Daniel, look at me."
Jeffrey looked up from his cup of coffee.
"This book is better than Zero Hour, it truly, honestly is. But it is also very different."
"I'm aware of that, Marty. I wrote it."
"I'm just saying, this is going to be a whole other monster to deal with. We can work things out, if you don't think you can take it."
"No. It'll be good for me. It's been ten years, right? Gotta get back on the horse some time."
"Right."
"Greta thinks I'm wallowing."
"Daniel."
"That's silly, right?"
"You said you stayed in yesterday. You said you stayed away from her."
"I just wanted to let her know about the book."
"Yeah, I believe that." Marty sighed. "Do I need to push this meeting back?"
"No, I'm completely fine."
"Fine."
Marty paid the check, and they went out onto Broadway. It was a short walk up to the publisher's offices. They passed through building security and went upstairs to the reception area. An editorial assistant named Melissa came to get them and lead them back to a small conference room. The editor and a man Jeffrey assumed was with legal greeted them warmly as Melissa discreetly shut the door behind them.
"Mr. Page," the editor, Tom, said as he shook Jeffrey's hand.
"Please, call me Daniel," he said carefully.
They sat down around the table. Everyone waited as he poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table.
"I just wanted to tell you how impressed we all are with Prairie Quiet. It really is something of a triumph."
He took a sip of water to hide a laugh.
Marty gave him a stern look and said to the room at large, "That's because it's about real life. It's about real joy and real pain--things we can all identify with, right?"
"Exactly. And we respect your client's bravery in telling the story. It couldn't have been easy."
He fidgeted with his tie.
"Of course, there is the concern that it's so very different from your other book, which could affect our marketing."
"That was a long time ago," Marty said.
"No, no, we completely understand. We just want to differentiate this in the public's mind. We were thinking that instead of listing your client as Dan Page, as he was on Zero Hour, we go with his full name. Daniel Jeffrey Page sounds more Š literary. Sounds less like the guy who wrote a spy thriller."
"No."
"Dan," Marty began.
"No. I don't want them using my middle name. It's my name, right? I get to say."
"Of course." The smile had faded somewhat from Tom's face.
Marty leaned over and whispered, "You said you weren't going to do this."
"What about just Daniel Page, then?" Tom offered. "It's still distinct, literary, but familiar to your earlier audience."
He stared at him, shrugged slightly.
Marty leaned forward in his chair. "Look, we don't have to decide this now, do we? Why don't we focus on the contracts, we'll work out the marketing details later?"
"That's a good idea," Tom smiled again.
Jeffrey sat back and barely listened as they talked. He only tuned back into the meeting briefly when Marty told him to sign the contract. Finally, it was over, and he and Marty walked back down to the hotel.
"I'll get in touch with you about any revisions and the dust jacket design as soon as they're ready," he said as they entered the lobby.
"Yeah, great."
"You'll be okay getting to the airport in the morning?"
"I'm a grown man, Marty. I can take care of myself."
They shook hands, and Marty left him standing in the lobby.
* * *
A couple months went by as manuscripts went back and forth for revisions and the publicity tour was worked out. They did, indeed, want to schedule him for Oprah so that he could go on TV and cry. Then, early one morning, a UPS truck pulled into the drive and delivered the dust jacket for his approval. He signed for the package and began to open it as he stepped back into the house.
Colin appeared in the living room doorway, startling him.
"Well? What's it look like?"
He removed the bubble wrap and cardboard and stared at the cover. There was a photograph of a little boy made to look like shards of shattered glass. He held it up so Colin could see.
"That's me!" Colin beamed.
Jeffrey flipped the cover back around and read his name across the top. The sounds of the morning news faded into the silent breeze. "Daniel J. Page," he said. "I guess that's who I am now."
He looked up again at Colin, but his son was gone.